A chicken divine
Made entirely of gold
With a mind to cure cancer
And which never gets old
That makes a girl fall in love
And a man squeal like a dork
Looks as lovely as can be
As I stab it with my fork.
Leave a comment
Filed under Poems
Tagged as Chicken, Dinner, God, Humor, Poetry, Postaday, Wastefulness
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Google+ account. ( Log Out / Change )
Connecting to %s
Notify me of new comments via email.
Enter your Email address to receive updates on the latest travesties.
Join 848 other followers